


the honey inside your hive.

by mouthymandalorian



Category: The Equalizer (Movies)
Genre: Breeding Kink, Cheating, D/s if you squint, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, he literally calls you a slut but it's cool you're into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29610753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mouthymandalorian/pseuds/mouthymandalorian
Summary: you took a job with a group of assassins, and your boss really needs your help with identifying something that killed one of his team members. i have no excuse for this. this is dave york sex pollen trash and i regret n o t h i n g about it.fem reader :)
Relationships: Dave York/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	the honey inside your hive.

**Author's Note:**

> dave york is an actual demon and i fell into this pit and I CANT GET OUT HELP. there's dub con bc sex pollen but it's cool, reader wants it, worry not.
> 
> briana don't read this lmao

It’s late when your phone buzzes. 

_I need you._

You nurse a glass of red wine, yet to shed the black minidress clinging to your body; the remnants of another disastrous blind date. Rolling your eyes, you tap the screen.

 **_What is it this time?  
_ ** _Can you identify a substance for me?  
_ **_A substance?  
_ ** _Just get here._

You ignore the demanding tone. Dave York is an impatient man, but he pays you well for your services. 

**_Are you at the lab?  
_ ** _No, the safe house.  
_ **_Which one?  
_ ** _I’ll send you the coordinates._

The fucking coordinates. You can take the man out of the CIA. You’ve known the locations of all the safe houses in the city for a year now, but that’s Mr. York. He’s paranoid and careful. 

**_See you in 30._ **

* * *

This particular safe house is an “abandoned” office building downtown. A twenty-minute train ride and a two-minute walk from your place. Along the roofs of the looming buildings, there are lookouts posted with rifles trained on anyone walking too close to the building. 

It’s been “closed for repairs” for fifteen years. Large, blacked out floor-to-ceiling windows prevent nosy passersby from looking in, and signs screaming DANGER-KEEP OUT decorate the outer walls. If that doesn’t deter someone — well, that’s what the snipers are for.

When you graduated with your Masters in Chemistry, you figured you’d spend your life in a pharmaceutical company’s lab — and you did, for a while. After a few months, you realized the 9-5 wasn’t for you. A shitty boss and a shitty company with a shitty moral compass. Everything you did revolved around the company’s timelines and skirting FDA requirements. 

After a year and a half, you quit. Feeling impulsive, you answered a shady Craigslist ad and ended up working for a group of assassins. 

Wild, right?

At least you knew which way their moral compass pointed.

Now, you create and test all kinds of compounds and elixirs, get paid a ridiculous amount of money, and try not to think about what they do with your concoctions. Sleeping pills help. 

It’s not a perfect life, but it’s yours. And you are beholden to no one. 

With one exception. 

The problem is your boss, Mr. York. Mr. York is married to a striking woman, with whom he has two daughters. He takes time off to go to school plays. He goes on week-long vacations to visit his in-laws and take his kids to indoor waterparks. He finds you at work so he can show you the pictures. 

The devoted family man act is sweet, but has never fooled you. There was something sinister about Dave York. He murdered people for money, then went home and tucked his girls into bed. How could he not be a little fucked up?

He rarely talked about his wife, and you suspect they were on the outs. In fact, you suspect they’ve been over for a long time, but she sticks around, because why wouldn’t she? It’s a good life if you can look the other way. 

You daydream about him bending you over his desk. Sometimes he’d be talking about his daughters or giving you instructions and you wouldn’t even hear him. You’d be too busy staring at the bulge in his tailored slacks. 

He also scares the hell out of you. He could choke you to death and bury your body, and no one would ever find you. You wonder if he’d fuck you first. It wouldn’t be a terrible way to go. 

So, yeah, when he texts you at 11:30 pm, you come running. 

This was the first time he’d asked you to _identify_ something, though. 

When you get to the safe house, you find it mostly deserted. Mr. York stands over his desk with his back to the door studying something intently. You knock, trying not to startle him. He turns around and his mouth parts a little at the sight of you still dressed up in that black cocktail dress.

He licks his lips.

“You get all dressed up for me?” he asks, smirking a little. It’s a joke, obviously, but you feel heat in the back of your neck.

“I had a date earlier and hadn’t changed when you texted,” you said, shrugging, “What are we looking at? Full disclosure, I was drinking a glass of wine when you texted, so I’m not as sharp as I could be.”

He smiles and shakes his head.

“Come look,” he says, ushering you to the desk. On the surface sits a small black box with a clear lid. Inside, pink powder shimmers in the dim light. 

Mr. York hovers behind you while you look at it. Sometimes you forget how big he is. How broad he is. How absolutely massive his hands are. He smells like laundry detergent and aftershave and copper — like he’s been sweating. It makes your head spin.

“The guys found it on a target,” he says. “One of them inhaled some of it and—” 

Mr. York stops speaking, looking suddenly awkward. It’s the first time you’ve seen him so lost.

“And?”

“He, uh,” he stumbles over his words. 

It’s late and you’re missing your glass of wine, so you fold your arms and say, “Spit it out, _sir_.”

If you weren’t just a little tipsy, his potential reaction might have terrified you. 

“He got uncontrollably...aroused,” he says. This piques your interest.  
“An arousal agent?” you say. These were always interesting to study at your old pharma labs. You don’t have any equipment here, so you can’t get a proper look at it.   
“How do you know—” he starts.  
“I worked in pharmaceuticals before this. There were tons of drugs like Viagara, only more hardcore, but they almost never get past preliminary trials because the subjects always—” 

“Die?” he asks. 

“Yup, unless they can get properly railed,” you say, and then slap a hand over your mouth. Yeah, he’s an assassin, but he’s still your _boss_. When you look at him with wide eyes, ready to apologize, he’s smirking, wiping a hand over his face in disbelief. 

“Yeah, that’s the gist of it. We lost one of our guys,” he says.   
“Oh, _god_. That’s awful. Well, I can’t really look at it now… is there any way we can get this to the lab?” you ask. You find yourself suddenly awake, pleased to have a reason to spend more time with Mr. York.   
“Sure,” he says, “We need to be careful transporting it. I need to call Carol, too,” he says, and your heart sinks a little at the mention of his wife.   
“That’s fine, Mr. York, I don’t mind carrying it and waiting for you,” you simper.  
“You can call me Dave, kid,” he says, shaking his head.

 _Kid_. Ugh. 

You pick up the box carefully, both hands firmly around it, minding your high heels. You should have changed, but you look fantastic in this dress, and you wasted it on the idiot you’d had drinks with. He tried to explain exothermic reactions to you, like you hadn’t written a 25 page paper on it in undergrad.

You should stop dating other scientists, you think idly. 

Dave gets off the phone and nods at you. 

“Okay, let’s go,” he says. He walks to the other side of the room to grab his jacket. 

You really should have worn different shoes.

The sharp stiletto of your strappy heel catches on the rug. 

The fucking _rug_. Why was a safe house so well-decorated, anyway?

You drop, but you hold your arms out and clutch the box in your hands, trying to keep it in one piece. 

It’s a valiant attempt, but not good enough. The box crashes to the ground and the powder plumes back into your face, like someone threw flour in your face. You cough and sputter, breathing it in, trying not to panic. Dave starts toward you —

“Stop!” you yell. “Stay back, it has to be inhaled directly, don’t come near it!” 

Dave stops in his tracks and looks down, face twisted in concern and...fear?

It’s a little like being drunk. Your skin is warm and your lips are fuzzy. Before you lose your senses completely, you trap the dust under your oversize leather jacket. Your breathing picks up and there’s _pain_. It _hurts_. 

But it also feels… good? Like the first time you used a vibrator. Sensations flow through your body that you didn’t know existed. Your pussy is drenched in seconds. 

Dave observes you; he watches you squirm and try to control your breathing. He watches you make fists as you try to keep from touching yourself; watches you squeeze your thighs together for relief. 

When you stood in front of him in that dress earlier, it took everything in him not to bend you over the desk and fuck you silly. And now? With you squirming and sweating and mewling on the floor? 

He’s wanted you for a long time now, but Dave is a man of great control. He likes things to be well-planned and orderly. He likes to be in control of the situation. He is _not_ in control of his cock right now. 

“Stand up, sweetheart,” he says in a soft voice.   
“I can’t, it h-hurts,” you say.  
“Stand up,” he says again. It’s more commanding now, and it’s not improving the situation in your panties.  
“Mr. York… Dave… I can’t,” you whine at him. You look like you’re going to cry.  
“You can, sweetheart. Come here.”

You manage to stand up and it’s like knives _everywhere_. You walk to him slowly.

“H-help me,” you say, and your eyes are wide with fear, “I’m going to die if you don’t.”

He touches your bare shoulder and you jerk back — it feels so damn _good_. 

“Whoa, baby. What do you need?” he asks. His voice moves through you like the wine you’d had earlier, slow and warm and sending tingles to your fingers and toes. 

“I...I think you need to—touch,” you struggle to get words out. Losing control is humiliating. He’s shown no interest in you other than your work and here you are, arousal dripping down your thighs, begging him to touch you. 

Dave’s cock strains against his pants and he sucks air in through his teeth. 

“I know, I know you’re m-married, I’m sorry—can you, maybe you can find someone else—”

At this request, Dave’s face shifts from sympathetic to angry. 

“No,” he says, and pulls you into him, holding you a little too tight.

There is a side of Dave that you don’t see a lot, the one you suspect exists but never see. It’s dark and jealous, and it’s the side of him that wants to put his hand on your throat and tell you to never say anything like that again. It’s the side of him that wants to fuck you in a window by a busy street, the side that wants to claim you and mark you. 

“You want someone else?” he asks, and he pushes you against his desk.   
“N-no, I want—”

It’s getting hard to talk now. You can’t resist it for much longer, you need friction; you need something, and this game he’s playing seems cruel. You lean against the desk, hike up your dress, and slip your fingers into your panties. The moan you let out is filthy.

Dave rips your hand out of your panties, picks you up, and, to your immense, lust-drunk surprise, places you gently on to the heavy mahogany desk. 

“No, baby girl. I’m going to do that for you,” he says. You quiver at the promise.  
“Please, please—” you whimper.   
“Do you want me to be gentle, baby girl?” he asks.  
“N-no.”  
“Good.” 

He moves between your open legs, puts his fingers over your panties, and sinks his teeth into the tender part of your neck. You _wail_ and he puts his other hand over your mouth. 

Dave’s hand moves down your inner thighs, feeling the wetness leaking out of you.

“Fuck,” he says, “fuck. Is that all _you_ ?”  
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it—”   
“Shh,” he soothes you, “There’s nothing to apologize for, sweet girl. Let me help you, okay?”

He’s sweeter than you ever imagined he could be; under normal circumstances, you might enjoy that, but now? You need him to _devour_ you. 

“Meaner,” you sob out, squirming on the desk. 

His face is angry again, and you clench around nothing. That’s the look he has just before he goes out on missions; the look he has when something’s not gone his way; when his wife is yelling at him over the phone. That look is sinister, and it soaks your panties every time you see it. 

“Meaner?” he growls into your ear. “I can do that.”

He grips the back of your head and pulls, _hard_. He moves the other hand up to your neck and wraps it around your throat.

“Are you a little slut? Is that it? Do you need to be put in your place?” 

You nod and squirm and plead for him to touch you. He moves his hand from behind your head and pushes three fingers inside of you, thumbing your clit with his thumb. He keeps his hand wrapped around your throat while he fucks you with his fingers, in and out, and you buck up into him. 

He squeezes your throat. 

There is a wracking, shrieking sob that comes out of you when it sends you over the edge, and you come around his fingers. The ache recedes, and you look up at him with wide eyes. He takes his fingers out of you and licks up every bit of you, and groans at the taste.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

As soon as the ache recedes, it’s back, and it burns more this time. You let out a sob and wrap your arms around your stomach, shaking your head.

“It’s not enough—you have to, you have to be—” 

Dave understands. He reasons with himself for a second. You’re under the influence of something toxic, but you said yourself that if he doesn’t help, you would die. And he couldn’t let you die. 

It had _nothing_ to do with what you were doing to him squirming on his desk in that little black dress, dripping your come all over the mahogany. He leans forward and keeps rubbing your cunt, giving you some relief. Your noises are animalistic and it does something to his caveman brain. Makes him want to bend you over and breed you. 

“I’m going to fuck my little slut,” he says to you, and your eyes roll into the back of your head. Suddenly, his clothes are off, and he’s stripped you, too. He picks you up off of the desk, turns you around, and tells you to put your hands on the desk and arch your back. 

He lines his head up to your cunt and pushes into you, and you don’t have time to properly appreciate his girth before he’s slamming into you, hard, and curls his fingers around your throat again. 

“Is th-this what you n-need, little girl?” he grunts.   
“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, I need that, Dave—”

With no warning, a large hand slaps your ass, _hard,_ and you yelp in surprise.

“What did you call me?”  
“I—Mr. York, I’m sorry,” you cry, and you’re sure you're going to come again as his hips snap sharply against your ass.

“That’s right, you c-call me Mr. York, baby. Good girl. Fuck. Goddamn, you look so pretty,” he says. He’s not holding back, and thank god for that, because you’ve never felt so full of someone else. No one has ever ridden you this hard. 

In your lust-filled haze, you reach back and pull his head toward your own, catching his mouth in a positively sinful kiss, tongues everywhere, and you moan into his open, hot mouth. His groan is heady and you push yourself back onto him, desperate for him to be even further inside of you. 

“Fuck. _Fuck_. Fuck,” he says. “You’re so goddamn good, you’re such a good little girl—wanted this for so long, you don’t know.”

You gasp at his confession. So it wasn’t just you. 

“I-I-I wanted you, too, so l-long,” you stutter. Dave pulls out and you groan in frustration, so empty without him; he _slams_ back into you at an angle and hits your g-spot with such force that you almost come right then.

“Mr. York—please, I’m close, I’m so close,” you whine. 

“You’re such a fucking _good little girl_ ,” he snarls, and he smacks your ass again, wraps his hand around your throat, and squeezes as hard as he can. You see spots but your orgasm comes fast, hard, _powerful_ , and you scream his name. 

He pulls himself out of you and you whimper at the lack of sensation. He grunts as he pumps himself a few more times and spills all over your ass. You lean over the desk, trying to catch your breath, assessing whether this is over. 

It’s not. 

The whine that comes out of you is unbidden. Tears sting the corner of your eyes because you’re getting scared. You were afraid of this from the beginning, but you think the only way to stop it is for him to finish inside of you. 

Arousal agents were complicated, and there were a million reasons they couldn’t get approval. One of them included the fact that most of them required ejaculate to stop the effects. Obviously, that’s a problem. You know Mr. York would never come inside of you. He couldn’t risk that, and you couldn’t blame him. 

So. If he didn’t finish inside of you, you would die. 

Dave notices your shoulders shaking and rushes to you, whirling you around to face him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His face is soft again. Concerned.   
“It’s not working, Dave, I think—”   
“I need to come inside you, don’t I?” he says softly, brow knitted.  
“I don’t”--pain, hot and sharp, courses through you — “ever expect—ah, god _dammit_!” you say, gritting your teeth.  
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he says, soothing you, “It’s fine. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

Dave is hard again—he loves seeing you so vulnerable. Reliant on him. He could get used to it. 

“Let’s get you comfortable,” he coos, and you can only whimper in response. He lays you down on the desk, kissing your forehead and your cheek, keeping his hand on your pussy, drawing slow circles around your clit, sending shockwaves through you. 

He settles his cock in your folds, rubbing against your dripping cunt, and he leans down to kiss you deeply. Your whines and whimpers echo through the empty hallways. 

“Dave— _please_ —” 

He pushes in slowly. Leisurely, languid movements, and it feels so good you want to cry. Completely different from just a few minutes ago. 

“Do you need me to fill you up, baby girl?” he asks, grabbing both of your breasts and squeezing, massaging. You whimper an affirmative.   
“These are so nice. They would look good full of milk, wouldn’t they?”

Your eyes snap open at his filthy words. He dips his head down, takes a nipple into his mouth; he drags his teeth across the little bud and you arch up and cry out. He sucks softly and groans. 

For a moment, the only sound in the room is heavy breathing and the wet, sinful movement of his cock moving in and out of your insatiable cunt. It’s a delicious noise and even though you are not in your right mind, you know you want to remember that forever. 

“Baby, tell me you want me to fill you up,” he says. Your breath catches and your cunt clenches around him.   
“I want-I want—”  
“Tell me you want me to put a baby in you,” he says. You arch up, eyes wide, ready to come for the third time.   
“I-wanna—I want you to put a baby in me, Dave, please, fuck a baby into me,” you say and his pace picks up, teeth gritted.  
“Yeah, you do, you’ll look so good with my baby in you— _fuck_ ,” he says. You grab wildly at his wrist—you need his hands around your throat again.   
“You’re so fucking dirty,” he growls, and wraps his hands around your neck, squeezing lightly. He moves faster, and you’re so close.

“Dave—I want you to fill me up, please, please,” you whisper and he grunts, thrusting into you, teeth bared. 

“Touch yourself,” he says, and your hand snakes down to your neglected clit and it is _heaven_ . You move your hand quickly over yourself. The mix of his grunts, your moans, your hand, his cock in you, his hands around your neck — it’s all _so_ much.   
“I’m- _please_ , I-” 

You’re just babbling now, and Dave dips his head down again and kisses you. 

“Let go, little girl, let go,” he coaxes, and you come, somehow, harder than ever. Legs shaking hard. 

“Fill me up,” you moan through it, and he does. Dave comes and comes, like he hasn’t in months, like he hasn’t just come all over your back earlier. He bites into your neck and moans.

“Baby, you’re incredible,” he says. You look up at him, dazed, all blissed out, and he chuckles. The ache is less now. Your head feels clearer.

“I-I think, it’s getting better,” you say, averting your eyes.  
“Hey, look at me,” he says, using his commanding voice. You look up at him through your lashes.   
“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s okay. Let me take care of you. I can do that as many times as you need, okay?”  
“Okay—thank you, Dave. What, um, what about the baby stuff?” you ask, chewing your lip. He moves you up, still inside, to sit on the edge of the desk. He brushes your hair behind your ear.   
“Would it be so bad?” he whispers.   
“No,” you whisper back.   
“Then let me fuck you all better, baby,” he purrs.

Yeah, much better than the pharmaceutical job.


End file.
